


The Rib is the Shell and the Heart is the Yolk

by th_esaurus



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Cannibalism, F/M, Ficlet, Multi, Murder Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-05
Updated: 2013-05-05
Packaged: 2017-12-10 10:34:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/785065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/th_esaurus/pseuds/th_esaurus





	The Rib is the Shell and the Heart is the Yolk

Abigail Hobbs never did partake in her father's particular hobbies, but it seems a little after the fact to mention it now.

*

Hannibal runs a bath for them both. Abigail's house, her folks' house, was always full of furniture her father made or her mother bought from catalogues, because she was the kind of woman who found catalogues classy; but Hannibal's taste is other-wordly, antiques and modernity side by side, furniture that doesn't have a price tag on it. His bathtub is ceramic and freestanding, perched upon four splayed black hooves (don't they usually have lion's paws or talons or some such?) and he graciously gives her a silk robe while they wait for the water.

He always makes sure she goes to bed relaxed. To help with her nightmares, he says.

She is going to teach him how to use a rifle tomorrow. He seems to view the thing with a certain disdain, preferring close quarters and far less traceability, but he tries to show an interest. She appreciates that.

Today was his turn. They strangled a boy together. He wanted her to feel the life slipping out of him under her thumbs. Hannibal's hands were wrapped around hers, and she could feel one pulse below her hands, and one above; and then she could just feel Hannibal's.

She didn't know the boy. She didn't know the boy, and Will was working late, so they ate his liver quite openly. 

Hannibal holds his hand out and helps her step into the water. It's hot as soup, hot enough that she flinches at it, and it's the first time she's flinched all day. He climbs in behind her, and the tub accommodates them both grandly. Still, she leans close against his chest. 

*

She has her own room in the house, as she's still officially a visitor and not a permanent installation, but then, Will's supposed to sleep in the guest room and never gets further than leaving his jacket draped over the bed. His laptop and a pile of books take up a corner of Hannibal's desk, and Abigail thumbs through them while Hannibal makes green tea downstairs to help them off to sleep.

She hadn't bothered getting dressed. What was the point? Hannibal toweled her dry and brushed her hair between his fingers. 

Will's handwriting in his notebooks is typically chicken-scratch. He used his hands for tying fishing flies and making nets with his Dad as a kid, and never learnt to write in cursive. He's used to spilling childhood secrets in Hannibal's company by now, and Abigail learns by proxy, and loves discovering every part of Will just as much as Hannibal does. He writes in shorthand, though, and she finds his lecture notes pleasantly indecipherable.

"Spying, hmm?" Hannibal says amicably as he brings her tea.

"I'm not," she bristles, "I'm just interested." Petulantly, Abigail flops down on the bed, stretching herself wide, until Hannibal taps her sharply on the flank to shuffle over. She smiles, crawls under the goose-down duvet, rearranges her pillows until they fit her just right. Hannibal sits up in bed, to sip his tea and read awhile. When Abigail rolls over, she's very near his bare thigh.

"Is Will home tonight?"

"No. He's out of state on a case."

"Should I call? To say goodnight?"

Hannibal smiles wryly. "He's a big boy, Abigail, and he does not need us to tuck him in at night." He looks more serious, for a moment. "He knows I am always available. If he needs anything."

He's reading a thick, dreary-looking collection of essays on post-traumatic stress syndrome. He thinks Will has it. He hasn't yet said this, and probably never will, and Abigail knows this is because he doesn't want Will to learn how to cope. Hannibal wants to be Will's coping mechanism, and he has told her as much with a simple shrug.

"Do you think," Abigail asks, burying her face into the meat of Hannibal's thigh, "that you'll kill Will one day?"

"Undoubtedly," Hannibal says mildly. "He is already far too close."

"Can I help?"

He strokes her hair with his free hand, smoothing it back from her neck and playing his fingernails in concentric patterns on her skin. "Of course you can. We shall do it together."

"I wouldn't like anyone else to kill Will. It'd be—he's ours, I mean. His life is ours, right?"

"Of course." 

"Could we wait a while, though?" 

"…Of course." Hannibal's voice is only a murmur now. "Whatever you wish."

He reads his book, finishes his drink, though she lets hers go cold. And then he wraps her up in his arms and whispers his secrets in her ear to lull her to sleep.

*

Abigail dreams of cutting out Will's heart and putting it on a chain around her neck and keeping it there forever.

She never had such dreams when her father was alive.

And when she wakes, Hannibal will make sure she had no nightmares, and she'll tell him, very honestly, that she really, really didn't.


End file.
